Work Text:
You fall to your knees before you realize what's happened. Your body registers the blood splatter before your brain does; hands slack in shock and throat tight in terror. The room is uncomfortably warm, but you feel cold. Maybe as cold as he does.
He's across the room from you, his sweater back down and head in his hands. "No," the greasy haired man moans, "n-not again…" His skin is still the same unnatural tint of blue. You should've known, damnit, and now his jacket is splattered with Yesenin's blood. Fuck, there's so much death strewn across your living room.
"What did you do?" You demand, but your voice is hoarse. It seems so far away, all of a sudden, as if this is all a dream. After all, why would you survive, instead of anyone else? This can't be real. You've said that to yourself many times over the past week, though: this can't be real, muttered as the sun began to scorch the earth, this can't be real, whispered as the news gave signs too mundane, this can't be real, shouted as FEMA barges in—
It feels so hopeless. You're falling out of rhythm. Logic tries to kick in, but primal fear keeps kicking back. Is everyone in your house dead now? Even your neighbor's daughter? You tried so hard to protect her.
You must be dead too, right? So your failures don't matter. It's fine.
The man sitting on your couch makes a high-pitched whine. "I didn't mean to," he stutters out, "I thought it would be different here." His fingers pull away from his face to tug at the strands of black hair. His nailbeds are bleeding, the stress and movement must've torn his wounds open again. "It n-never is."
Silence rings between the two of you. Suddenly, his hands release from his hair and he snaps his head to look at you. "I didn't want this," he begs, falling off the couch and standing on his knees in mimicry of your position, "I swear I d-didn't."
Even now, he's still shaking. You should point your gun at him, but it's fallen out of your hands — you should command him to get out of your house, but your throat won't move. You don't know if you're even breathing.
He takes your silence as a sign. "I didn't do this out of malice," the man mumbles, inching closer, tongue stumbling on the m in malice. His blue hands (cold, so, so cold—) reach out and touch your face. The skin is clammy, almost sweaty, yet not. There's warmth to be found in his bleeding fingers, even as he digs the digits into the flesh of your jaw and cheeks.
"That was n-n-never my goal."
He's too close to you. You stare at his narrow pupils, the tight pull of tension— he always had such good excuses, always made you feel bad for doubting him and his humanity, always had something clever to say when you couldn't bring yourself to shoot him— you wonder what he'll say now.
It takes a long time for you to find your voice. Maybe it's only because his hands start to move towards your neck. "Then what was your goal?" Your voice feels too loud in the minimal space allotted between the two of you, the distance that he keeps closing in on. His cold hands pause right above the edge of your turtleneck.
"I," he says breathily, "wanted to share a secret."
How selfish. His wince displays that you must've said your thoughts aloud. "I just…" the man trails off, deep dark eyes looking down and never into yours, "don't think I did this on purpose." His tone is scolding. It's — it's baffling that he's taking upon himself to scold you, as if there isn't blood splatter on your ceiling.
His hands start moving again with your silence. "You know, I'm t-tired of living like this," he whispers into your ear as his hands trace down your chest, "but you chose not to kill me. Multiple times, too." Even his breath is cold, you realize.
"While I'm doing this, someone else was k-killed in their own home."
There's a breathy shift as his fingers slip under your sweater. It's not long before he fumbles his way underneath your undershirt as well. "We've both thought about why that is," he pants, face cold cheek pressing into yours as gooseflesh erupts across your body and cold, crusted fingers dig into your soft chest muscle and belly fat, "doesn't that make you complicit with this?"
You're no longer cold.
"Y-you let me live," he scolds, "shouldn't you take responsibility for that?"
"I didn't do anything wrong," you plead, though you're not sure why. All you did was let someone live, what sort of crime is that? Even surrounded with gore, you cannot find fault with yourself. Perhaps that speaks to your own sense of arrogance.
He hums. Bloodied lips ghost the edge of your jaw, scratching the healed scabs on your stubble, "you let me in." You close your eyes to ignore the soft kiss pressed to the corner of your mouth, "you let me live. T-there's nothing to be done now. You…"
Cold breath fans against your lips. You don't pull away.
"Y-you're different," he remarks, "you lived."
That's the last thing he says before kissing you. You let him, your lips parting as he pushes you down on the ground. You feel warm, sticky blood touching your head— maybe from one of the exploded bodies around you, but his hands become far too demanding for you to remember that it's human blood touching you.
It's been a long time since you've been touched. Not in just a physical, needy way, but in a way that demands comfort or signals longing. From the way his hands grab at your body, hands under your sweater and dragging down, you know that the man atop you hasn't either.
He straddles your waist, looking down at you, in a distinctly feline manner. The cat-like behavior matches his narrow pupils, you think. You're not saying much, not making many noises as he pets at you– being quiet is your nature. The cold man seems unsatisfied with that.
"Do you want this?"
His voice is soft. You don't respond. The soft touches stop, to your own mourning.
"I w-won't continue unless I know," he stumbles, "I need t-to know."
Communication has never been your strong suit. You bring your arm up and cover your eyes. You don't want to look at him as you nod. It's not enough. Cold hands latch onto your jaw, pulling your face from where you've buried it into the crook of your elbow. He pins your wrist to the hardwood.
"I won't beg," you pant, staring straight into his eyes from where he's hovering above you. You're taller than him, yet remain pliant under his touch. Is that not enough? What more does he want you to say— yes, yes I do want you, even surrounded by the deaths you caused. You know you're sick for this.
His mouth is a flat line. "Do you want this?"
You try to look away, but he keeps his hand tight on the point of your chin.
"Yes," you whisper, voice hoarse, focusing on the furrow of his brow.
The man above you leans down and kisses you. Despite your awkward position, you raise your head to give him more access. It's rough, uncomfortable, like holding an ice cube to your lips and moving it around. When you'll look at your lips in the bathroom mirror, they'll be bruised red.
It's subpar, really. You're still desperate and needy. He doesn't need to break for air, leaving you squirming as you struggle to breathe. Just as you begin to spasm, he pulls back, breathing harshly into your face. You expect him to stink, especially after his confession of not showering, but you smell nothing besides the air of metal.
He presses kisses to the side of your neck. Your wrist is released, along with your chin, in favor of pulling up your sweater. You shuffle around to help, surprised when he dares to remove his jacket. "Won't you be cold?" You ask, angling your neck to give him easier access.
His fumbling stops. "I'll be w-warm enough with a-activity," he answers. It's a lewd way of warming up, though you're not complaining. You must be going insane. You open your mouth again to start speaking, but he starts kissing you again. You pant into his mouth, still trying to catch your breath from your last kiss, but lock lips despite your burning lungs.
You're not as young as you used to be.
This time, he's not afraid to let your tongues mix, sucking on your bottom lip at times. You feel humiliated to allow him so much control over you, but there's something debauched about it that appeals to you. Scratch the idea of going insane, you are insane. You're already hard in your pants, but he pays no attention to your tent and instead focuses on kissing you.
Even when you break apart, a thin line of spit connecting your mouths, he presses kisses to the corner of your lips. It's too gentle for the rushed, panting nature, for this almost stranger atop you, but he presses against you like you mean something.
"You're so warm," he whispers while pressing his lips to your jaw, "I want to crawl inside you."
Is this his version of flirting? You hate that it works on you.
Awkwardly trying to reach around him to palm your own erection, he sits up and presses his bony ass into your crotch. There's nothing you can do to stop the choked off moan his weight summons from your throat.
He smiles, more of a smirk, self-satisfied. "You make nice n-noises," he compliments. You can feel even your ears burning.
"Stop— doing that," you groan out, reaching up with your hand to cover your face again. He allows you your privacy.
The smirk grows. "You don't hear praise often, do you? It's t-the best way to get you to react t-to me." His cold hands begin undoing your zipper as he scoots back for easier access to your crotch. The friction causes your hips to thrust up, but he presses his hands into your hip bones to press you into the floor.
He's abandoned his attempts to get your pants off. You make a needy whine. "Patience," he scolds. It's perverted.
"You don't—" another choked off moan and he uses his hips to rock against your erection, holding you down still, "you don't—"
"You're so docile, like this. How odd, i-it's completely different from your normal behavior." His head tilts, but you can't read the expression on his face through the gaps in your fingers. "You a-act so detached, but you're so needy now."
You're humiliated.
But you're so desperate. "Just— just fuck me already," you growl out. You're tired of this frottage, you need more, you need—
His hands move from your hips and back to your zipper. "I'm w-warm," he murmurs, "I want to bask in it."
It's too gentle. It chafes against your logic that this is happening to you rather than you participating in this. Maybe he's right and you are complicit with the death surrounding you. You're allowing this, after all. You're allowing him to slide your pants down, even helping to kick them off. He palms at your erection and you arch your back off the floor and whine.
He's still in a sweater and jeans. You sit up a little, using your arms to support your new position. "Don't you…" your eyes drift noticeably to his own crotch. Blinking slowly, he follows your gaze to look down.
"Do you actually c-care about that?" He asks, voice light and airy.
Your mouth tightens into a flat line. You look away in shame.
"You're so easy to embarrass," he comments, but you hear him start fiddling with his own zipper. It's… surprising that he even has genitals. Before you can go along with your own thoughts about the reality of Visitors being able to reproduce, he pulls his own cock out.
He's hard too. You're disgusted by the relief you feel that he's as turned on by all of this as you are.
It's not long before he pulls out yours too. Even his dick is blue, you notice with a small amount of humor, a sharp contrast against the fleshy red of your own. Even his light, freezing cold touch to your cock is enough to have you arching your back again, choking back whimpers.
"Even this is w-warm," you hear him mutter over you as he presses your two members together.
The contact is wet and cold and hot. You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Are you that ashamed of this?" He asks, looking down at you with those narrow eyes, "would you really prefer t-to hurt yourself than be vulnerable with a monster?"
You hate eye contact. "Or is it because I'm a m—"
"Stop," you command, voice hoarse, ending your words with a whine.
He loosely jerks both of you off at the same time. "I-if you keep making those sounds, then I, I will," he pants, "but I n-need to know that you want this."
"I already—"
"It's not enough," he bites out, continuing to slide his hand up and down, "I n-need more of you."
You whine. After a few seconds of harsh panting and more teasing, you feel tears in your eyes from frustration. "Please," you whisper, voice cracking, "please, I need more, please—"
"Do you want this?"
"Yes, yes, please, just hurry up already."
That must finally satisfy him. He lets go of his own cock and focuses on yours, placing a clammy hand on your stomach as he jerks you off roughly. It's not dry thanks to the combined slick of yours and his precum, but it's still almost uncomfortable. His hands are too cold for you to feel entirely blissed out, but the firm pressure on your stomach is— it's doing something, but you're not sure what.
He keeps talking. "You're so full," he murmurs, voice quiet over the sounds of your panting and soft moaning and whining, unable to thrust upwards from both him straddling you and pinning your midriff down, "there's so much inside of you. Organs, blood, bone, flesh… I have this void inside me. It eats me alive, I'm never full, never warm."
His cold hand stops pressing on your stomach and reaches towards your hand that's digging into your father's rug. You don't fight as he holds onto it, too busy writhing now that you're free to do so. When your hand goes underneath his sweater and undershirt, you flinch at the freezing temperature.
There's no chance of pulling away, though, not with how firm the grip on your wrist is. Your fingers graze the edges of the void, you're disturbed to notice that even his flesh is moving in a slow, circling motion with the rest of the darkness.
"I'm so empty," he whispers, swiping his thumb across the head of your cock, "but you're w-warming me."
"I'm changing," he groans as he guides your hand around the unknown, "you're changing me. I want to eat you alive. I want to have you all."
You whine. He's teased you to the point of tears, despite how hard you try to hold them back. You're so weak. It's disgusting. He's disgusting. You're disgusting.
"Y-you," he rocks forward, rubbing his cock into your groin, using his fist to angle your own cock out of the way, "you're just letting me d-do this. I feel like I'm consuming you." His hips keep rocking, but his fist stays still. You try to thrust up, but his hand doesn't move.
You let out a sob. "That's—" another pant, another moan, "that's what my n-nature is, I guess. Devouring. Do you like the idea of that? Being c-consumed," more pants, from the both of you, even as your writhe in near pain from your built up need, "and taken by me? D-does that relieve you of—"
He chokes off as your fingers enter the ice cold void. They've turned a distinct red as the rest of your hand turns pale. Your poor cock is weeping and twitching at the whine he lets out. "Of— of—"
The pressure of your digits within whatever the swirling mass where his stomach should be sends him over the edge. With a harsh rock of his hips, he arches until his head is touching your forehead, leaning forward to kiss you again as cold cum coats your stomach. You find no release until he starts pumping your cock, leading to you gasping and panting into his mouth as he cuts off your air flow with his mouth.
You chase your relief in his palm, whispering pleas into his mouth as he sucks at your lip and bites at your tongue. It's foreign, it's wrong, it's too much—
Release comes at last. Your own cum is warm as it joins his on your stomach. You drag your hand from underneath his sweater and move to rest on his chest, pushing him away gently. You're both a mess, you more-so than him.
You stare at each other, harsh panting in the room.
"S-should I leave?"
It's insanity that makes you shake your head. He smiles wide enough to split his dry lips, even if they've been wettened by your spit. "I'll s-start cleaning up."
You drop your head against the hardwood floor as he gets up. After a few seconds of fumbling, you put your cock away and put your pants back on. He hands you a rag— you hadn't even noticed he left. "Did—" your voice cracks, still hoarse from all your whining, "did anyone hear?"
He looks amused. "No, not at all. The girl is in your room watching cartoons, I think. You should shoot the man in the office, though. He'll kill her tonight if you don't."
You nod. You clean up the combined spent on your skin and put your sweater back on. He hands you the gun.
The room is empty. You don't ask where the bodies went. You don't even understand how he managed to reach the blood stains on the ceiling. You don't think much as you march into the office and shoot the man sitting on your bookshelf.
He hadn't lied. The "immortal" man was a Visitor.
You don't know what this means for the two of you. He stays and joins you when the sun falls in the parlour. You don't know his name. He doesn't know yours.
You don't think about it too much. You don't think much of anything at all.